You: a hot, greasy McRib, slathered in BBQ sauce. The sun was glistening off the reflective surface of your billboard about a mile from my house. The caption next to you said "Missed me?"
Me: driving past you, finding myself jealous of the box of fries resting next to you. I did miss you, with all my heart. I'm fighting the urge to order you and gobble you right up, McRib. Why must you torture me? You are gone most of the year and then just show up around the holidays, expecting me to take you back? I haven't even seen you since last January. Just go McRib, it easier if I never see you again.
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